


All Is You and Here (Burning Bridge Remix)

by velvetglove



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: M/M, Remix, YnM, remixredux05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-25
Updated: 2005-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetglove/pseuds/velvetglove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if there were no knock?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Is You and Here (Burning Bridge Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> Remix of RanaEros' story, [**_All Is You And Here_**](http://slashcity.org/lorelei/allhere.html). Rana's original is a sequel to her story, [**_In Your Arms, This Lonely Place_**](http://slashcity.org/lorelei/lonelyplace.html). My story is perhaps better described as an alternate sequel than a remix. I would encourage anyone who plans to read my story but hasn't read _In Your Arms_ and the original _All Is You And Here_ to do so. These are wonderful stories, and it was my fondness for them, as well as for Rana's particular take on the extracanonical possibilities in YnM, that led to my remix choice.
> 
> Beta by gothphyle, pun, and rhiannonhero. Originally posted to the 2005 Remix Redux archive, and to LiveJournal on 03/25/2005.

Too many quiet weeks since Hisoka's last late-night visit, Tatsumi wakes in a panic, half-rising from the bed before he understands that there was no knock, and there is no one waiting at the door. He blinks, reaches for his glasses and sinks back against the pillow with a sigh. He knows Hisoka will not come but part of him still hopes, listening past the blood thumping in his ears for Hisoka's light tap. Shadows ripple across the bedroom wall and he searches in vain for a pattern, anything like a sign. It is possible--no, likely--that Hisoka will never come, but still he waits.

He tells himself that, if there _had_ been a knock, there would have been no time to heat the water, and thus no tea to warm Hisoka's hands. He tells himself that it's better this way.

On fortunate nights, the waiting exhausts him into a dreamless sleep, but tonight the tension in Tatsumi's body drives him from bed. He pads through the dark house to the kitchen and pauses in the doorway, his hand at the light switch, before deciding he prefers the dark. The window over the sink provides a view of a lunar garden, but Tatsumi stares without seeing as he fills the kettle. He takes two teacups from the cupboard, hesitates a moment, then places a third beside them on the countertop. His hand shakes as he reaches for the jar of tea.

The three cups are identical, fine, white porcelain and they glow a milky blue where the light intersects their curves. He isn't certain which cup represents him, which Tsuzuki or Hisoka, until one falls, untouched, to shatter on the tile floor. As he crouches to pick up the shards, it seems painfully clear that Hisoka will not return. This knowledge lends him a terrible calm and serves to steady his hands.

~~~

 

The morning following the breaking of the cup, Tatsumi suffers through a staff meeting while his body tells him vicious lies. He shivers miserably, recalling caresses that he never received, languorous and silken. He cannot bring himself to do more than glance at Hisoka, but Hisoka neither notices nor cares. Hisoka sees only Tsuzuki.

He has been cast aside, but remnants of the tenuous bond between Hisoka and himself linger unpredictably, asserting themselves without welcome. While he sits alone at his desk, a feeble threnody interrupts his pulse; later, as he eats a solitary lunch, a phantom hand describes the curve of his spine. These glimpses of Hisoka's pleasure with Tsuzuki are a taunt, a second-hand exultation reminding him that he is no longer wanted. He was not enough for Tsuzuki, and Hisoka does not need him, after all. The connection is not something he can seem to undo, but he won't believe that Hisoka maintains it deliberately. Hisoka would not be so cruel.

The peculiar courtship between Kurosaki and Tsuzuki is of such long standing that no one thinks anything of it, but the sudden bloom of carnality between them disrupts the department in small, awkward ways. The atmosphere is charged and antic, rich with pheromones, faintly embarrassing for all but the parties most involved. It's impossible not to notice the flushed faces and the touches that linger, but mentioning them would be impolite and serve no purpose. The partners take long lunch breaks behind the locked door of their office and no one is bold (or unkind) enough to knock. Tatsumi is careful not to react when Tsuzuki's paperwork is turned in completed and on time, even when it bears evidence of Hisoka's tidy hand. He manages only a polite upward twitch of his lip when Hisoka flashes his beautiful smile. Hisoka smiles often now, uncountable numbers of smiles.

At one time, Tatsumi believed he could be satisfied with just Tsuzuki's friendship so long as Tsuzuki himself found some sense of equilibrium. He likes to think that if it had been his decision, he would have gladly relinquished any hope of a renewed sexual relationship in exchange for Tsuzuki's peace of mind. He now admits he is not so selfless. Tsuzuki is happy beyond even the most optimistic imaginings, but Tatsumi is far from satisfied.  
Because the answer should not matter, Tatsumi forces himself stop wondering if Tsuzuki knows and simply decides that he must. Hisoka will have told him the small details of their brief, unimportant involvement. He does not think Tsuzuki would have been able to keep any secrets, not in the wake of Hisoka's hungry first kisses. Tatsumi needs only logic, not empathy, to believe that Hisoka would offer up his own secrets as reassurance.  


~~~

 

If anyone is to blame, it is himself. When Hisoka first came to Tatsumi's door, he was frightened and fragile, yet as stubborn as always, irritably snapping commands as he pushed Tatsumi back on the bed. There'd been no time for questions then. However, never once during the months of their affair had Tatsumi asked anything of Hisoka outside of bed. They did not discuss what they were doing or what it signified. Hisoka never said how he felt about Tatsumi, and Tatsumi never asked. Tatsumi told himself that he did Hisoka a kindness by not asking questions. In truth, he wanted to avoid hearing Hisoka's answers.

~~~

 

Hisoka corners him in the file room, slightly frantic after days of Tatsumi's deliberate avoidance. His hand is terribly white against the sleeve of Tatsumi's jacket. Tatsumi stares at the hand, the fine bones and hard calluses, and remembers it moving over his bare skin. In his peripheral vision, he sees dark forms leap up the walls, savage as dancers around a fire. Closing his eyes, he forces the shadows down.

Hisoka says softly, "I know how hurt you are," and Tatsumi realizes it's true, his secrets leeched by the fingers that grip his sleeve.

Frowning, Tatsumi pushes his glasses up his nose and pulls his arm free. Tatsumi knows what Hisoka would say if allowed: that he is sorry; that he did not meant to cause any pain. He might even add that a clean break is best. He will not need to say that his choice was made years ago, and it has always been Tsuzuki.

It has always been Tsuzuki for him, too, but the time when they could claim intimate knowledge of one another is long past, and Tatsumi resents Tsuzuki's worried glances. Tatsumi will not be pitied - not by Tsuzuki, not by anyone.  
Work has always been his refuge, but if he cannot rely upon himself to remain professional and calm at the office, there will be no place left that's safe. He feels acutely the good sense behind the warnings against office romance. Department meetings cannot be canceled. Errors on expense reports must be addressed. Casework requires follow-up. Tatsumi cannot avoid seeing Kurosaki and Tsuzuki each and every workday, no more than he can block out the sounds of their laughter carried through the office wall.  


~~~

 

Such occurrences are less frequent now, but on the nights when he cannot sleep, he rises from bed without expectations. In the quiet kitchen, shadows crowd close as he prepares the kettle and boils the water, only to let it grow cold in the cups. He always sets out two cups. Neither one is meant for him.  


~~~

 

Watari's e-mail, pocked with an excess of animated yellow smilies, reminds him that there will be a party in the break room at two o'clock, a surprise for Tsuzuki. Kurosaki ordered in a cake as well as a large box laden with individual pastries, spots of grease soaking through the cardboard. Tatsumi has been in and out of the break room several times today already, seething with jealous rage, yet compelled by a pathetic need to be part of the celebration. Restless and irritable, he gets up from his desk and pushes his chair in, taking his cup in hand. The tea in the cup is still warm, but he pours it on the roots of the dry, brown plant on the windowsill and then heads for the break room with the now-empty cup.

The break room smells of burnt coffee. Wakaba is taping up paper party streamers that are already coming loose from the walls, and a few balloons drift close to the floor, their ebullience already spent. A few bottles of cheap champagne sit on the counter beside a stack of paper plates. Kurosaki and Watari are arranging pastries on a tray. The cake sits in the center of the table with two candles planted atop a fluffy field of meringue, big, waxy numerals, a one and a zero.

"Have you really been partners for ten years?" Tatsumi asks, although he knows the answer. He keeps track of such things. For instance, he also knows that they've been lovers for nine weeks, four days.

Kurosaki nods. "Yes, but that's not so long, is it?" He smiles to himself and licks frosting from the tip of his index finger. "Tsuzuki thinks no one remembers." He wears an expression of indulgent patience as he shakes his head, presumably thinking of Tsuzuki. Tatsumi shakes his head too, but the forced casualness cuts surprisingly deep. He returns to his office with his teacup still empty.

~~~

 

He leaves the party early, his head pounding. He can't bear to watch them any more, the two of them together, moving as if connected even when they're on opposite sides of the room. He stands to leave and voices rise in protest, but Tatsumi cites a quantity of paperwork that must be finished before he can leave for the day. Hakushaku corners Tsuzuki and Kurosaki, and the diversion allows Tatsumi to slip from the room.

Nauseated by the headache, he keeps the lights off and leaves his office door open in vain hope of fresh air. He adjusts the blinds so that he has enough light to work, but not enough to make the headache worse. So long as he stays still, the pressure behind his eyes doesn't relent, but it doesn't worsen, either. He takes a few useless aspirin swallowed down with stale water, and reaches for the folder atop the pile in his in-box. He wasn't lying about the paperwork, though he wasn't truthful about his deadline. He uncaps his pen and begins reading.

~~~

 

Tatsumi must have dozed; voices in the office next door rouse him to alertness. The pain in his head remains and he winces at the jingle of keys as Kurosaki and Tsuzuki move about their office, locking cabinets and file drawers. Tsuzuki's shape leans next to the coat rack, near the jamb of their open door, and Kurosaki comes to stand next to him, the light from the windows throwing their shadows up on the hallway wall, easily visible from the chair at Tatsumi's desk.

"How much did you drink?" Kurosaki asks, amused. Tsuzuki's shadow wavers a little. "Will you be all right, Asato?"

Shadow-Tsuzuki reaches for Shadow-Kurosaki and pulls him into an embrace. He kisses the top of Shadow-Kurosaki's head and murmurs something Tatsumi doesn't hear, doesn't want to hear. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. It feels as though his eyes are being prodded from behind, run through with knives.

Kurosaki laughs, a private, throaty chuckle meant just for Tsuzuki. "Come on. Get your coat. Let's go home."

"Are we in a hurry?" Shadow-Tsuzuki wobbles in the doorway, pulling his coat off the rack. "Are we late?"

Kurosaki's tone is all fond desire as he says, "Baka. I want to be alone with you."

It's been a long, difficult day and everything hurts. Tatsumi doesn't think. He just reaches out and takes.

Two pairs of shoes are loud against the tile, and their voices recede down the corridor together, but Kurosaki's shadow trails them alone.

~~~

 

The pressure in Tatsumi's head is nearly unbearable. He tries not to think about what he's done, or how he'll explain his behavior if found out. Chief Konoe would think it unlike him, an opinion that might work to his advantage, although clearly wrong. The group has been together for decades, but none of his co-workers know him, not even Tsuzuki.

He goes from room to room drawing the curtains against the setting sun, squinting helplessly against stabs of light. He undresses in the dark, hanging his clothing by feel. He puts away his suit pants, but leaves the jacket out. The biting pain behind his eyes makes him shudder and he notes that if he isn't able to light even a few candles, he won't be able to use what he has stolen.

In the inky, humid air of the bathroom, Tatsumi turns on the taps. He catches a glimpse of his shadow self reflected in the mirror, dark and dense crouched beside the tub. Washing in the dark, his hands move slowly but with purpose. It seems important to be scrupulously clean for what he has planned. Climbing into the tub, the bathwater is hot beyond tolerance, but the scalding heat eases his headache and he imagines he's floating in flame, purifying and soothing. When the ache in his skull has receded a little, he touches a match to the candle sitting at the foot of the tub and, to his relief, finds he can stand this faint illumination.

Shadows move beautifully in candlelight.

When he's been in long enough for the bath to feel comfortable, Tatsumi stands, water sluicing from his body. The air is cool against his heated skin and he shivers as he carefully towels himself dry. Still flushed from the bath, he notes that the hollows behind his knees and the small of his back immediately bead with sweat. He takes time, infinite time, to dry between his toes, behind each ear, any place that might need more attention. He stops, irritated, when he realizes he's stalling.

Tatsumi picks up the candle from the foot of the tub and carries it with him to the bedroom. The tiny flame softens the austerity of the white walls. Another twenty or so candles stand ranked on a long, low table running parallel to the length of the bed, and he crouches to light them, placing the candle in his hand back in its place. The towel drops to the floor and he sits on the futon, slumping a little. His suit jacket hangs innocuously from the doorknob, but just looking at it makes him feel guilty and ashamed. He hasn't done anything terribly wrong yet. If he were to stop now, with no harm done, he could forgive himself the shameful, foolish impulse that brought him to this point. But when he remembers the shadow on the hallway wall, Tsuzuki and Kurosaki merged against the light, he knows he won't stop.

Easing back to recline on the futon, Tatsumi arranges the pillow beneath his neck so that it's comfortable to look at the wall. His headache has shrunken to a distant, dull roar, scarcely noticable. The row of candles is at his left; when he turns his head to the right, he sees the grey velvet shape of his own body stretched along the wall, his limbs and torso distinct from the flat plane of the bed, and his head tilted at a slightly awkward angle. His neck will be stiff by the end of the evening.

The wall is completely bare. There are no nail holes. There is nothing but pure, white paint on smooth plaster. The full length of the bed can be seen in shadow, an uninterrupted stretch of sharply-defined darkness in two dimensions, without distortion or fuzziness. The room is arranged perfectly; it couldn't be better if he'd done it with intent.

Errant shadows try to avoid his notice, overflowing the corners and spilling across the ceiling. They are drawn by even the slightest discharge of his powers, but they should not come unless called. He will let them be for the moment; if they become too distracting, he'll disperse them with a word. What he has planned will take concentration, but it's no challenge compared to dozens of tasks he has completed with ease. His nervousness is due to the singularity of this situation. He has never been this selfish before, has never used his skills so blatantly for his sole benefit.

The words that call the shadow out come without hesitation, indecently ready on his tongue. Perhaps he has been planning this longer than he wishes to admit.

The air darkens as the shadow unfurls, a shifting ribbon rising from the pocket of his suit coat. As the shape begins to coalesce, Tatsumi adjusts his glasses and checks his own shadow and the expanse of white surrounding it. A shadow has only a man's shape; it does not have his substance. The illusion is all that is here tonight. He won't look at the vague, blank space where the man should be; instead, he looks to the wall, where Shadow-Tsuzuki stands at the foot of the bed. That shape is just as solid as Tatsumi's shadow, that body just as real, which is to say not at all.

Tsuzuki is waiting. Tatsumi inhales sharply, heart pounding. This is it, the last chance to call an end to the game before it goes too far. Deliberately, thoughtfully, Tatsumi exhales with a soft sigh and speaks the words that seal his intent.

In response to his voice, Tsuzuki's shadow begins to undress, the flat shapes of his clothing dropping into the dark at his feet. First, the awkward angles of the long, flapping coat fall away, then the suit jacket is shrugged to the floor. The shadow of Tsuzuki's necktie whips across the wall and falls in quick, graceful curves through the shadow-shape of Tatsumi's shin and raised knee. There is a slight, pleasurable sting where the shadows merge; to a certain extent, Tatsumi can shape these sensations to his whim. This will be his chance to test the extent of that control.

When Tsuzuki belonged to him, Tatsumi would not have allowed him to finish undressing on his own. He took such pleasure in stripping Tsuzuki's clothes from his body, uncovering and tasting the skin exposed by a rumpled, half-buttoned shirt, licking in the narrow vee of an unzipped fly. However, it is impossible for him to take the initiative here. Instead, he watches the wall as Tsuzuki's shadow peers down at his shirt and fumbles with the buttons, his hair falling forward, loose and too long. A small irregularity in the wall's surface breaks Tsuzuki's fingers as they work, then the line of his nose as he bends forward. Slightly irritated, Tatsumi murmurs an adjustment and the shape steps back.

When Tsuzuki is naked, Tatsumi reacquaints himself with the lines of Tsuzuki's shape, remembering with longing and sadness the pliant strength of Tsuzuki's physical body. He knew this would not be the same, but so much is missing, so much more than he had anticipated. He is determined not to care. He lifts his hand and beckons Tsuzuki forward.

There's no sense of weight when Tsuzuki kneels between Tatsumi's feet, nor does the bed shift as he places his hands to either side of Tatsumi's hips. On the wall, they are one form, amorphous and shifting: bed, man, and ghost. Tatsumi tentatively stretches out into the vast, confusing shadow space and lets the diffuse, muscular energy of the darkness explore him in return. The temptation to break control is strong, and he melts a little as he gets a sense of Tsuzuki beside him, just a taste, vague and dilute but delicious. He moans a command and the still-familiar shape of Tsuzuki's lanky body covers him, warm and present, yet disconcertingly without substance. Tatsumi grips the bedding tightly, determined not to destroy this thin illusion with an accidental attempt at touch.

Tsuzuki's mouth seeks his, so Tatsumi squeezes his eyes tightly shut and lets Tsuzuki kiss him. The touch is hot, urgent, and arid. The mouth has the correct form but the dry lips are missing Tsuzuki's sweetness and Tatsumi's responses are confused and delayed. Eyes slitted at the wall, he can't be sure he feels the pressure of fingertips at his jaw, or if he merely tilts his head in response to the illusion of an angular approach as Tsuzuki bends for another kiss. What he sees tells him that Tsuzuki's hands move decisively, moving in long strokes down his chest followed by vigorous attention to his nipples, pinching and twisting, but all Tatsumi feels is a teasing pull. A little desperate, Tatsumi arches his neck and whispers an order. Tsuzuki bends obediently to kiss his throat and, even without the wet warmth of a tongue, the contact goes deep and feels dangerously familiar. With a shaky moan, Tatsumi lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the empty space that curves above him, fleshless and hollow despite the slight but very distinct impression Tsuzuki's teeth against his pulse.

Despite all that is lacking, Tatsumi gets harder and harder, writhing beneath Tsuzuki's implied form with his fingers twisted in the bedding. Breathing heavily, his balls drawn up tight between his tensed thighs, Tatsumi whimpers and sinks a little deeper into the shadows. Tsuzuki's hand on his side is nearly solid for a moment, his touch urging Tatsumi to rock up against him, to press into his absent weight. The air folds over them, a hundred shades of gray drawing close and giving weight to the breath in his lungs. Eyes closed, Tatsumi feels his skin melting wide open as Tsuzuki becomes more solid, more real. Hard nipples graze his chest and he's stung by the rasp of a day's growth of beard against his cheek. He has missed this so much. Tsuzuki's cock is hard alongside his own; it won't take long now. Tatsumi reaches to cup the back of Tsuzuki's head in his hand, to pull him in for a deeper kiss, but the ephemeral body under his fingertips shifts like sand.

The illusion breaks like china. Pulling himself up out of the dark, Tatsumi props himself on his elbows and coughs until his breathing steadies. He prefers looking at the floor to the shifting form crouched between his thighs. When his breathing slows, Tsuzuki's shape is there on the wall, waiting for instruction.

He forgot; he can't forget. He mustn't touch.

The dry heat of the shadow's mouth envelops his cock. He'd always liked sucking Tsuzuki, liked the hands twisted in his hair and the tremors that wracked Tsuzuki's body. But this is nice, too.

It's been decades, but Tatsumi hasn't forgotten anything. He remembers Tsuzuki's weight shifting across his lap, thigh muscles trembling. He can almost feel the warmth of Tsuzuki's back, damp with sweat, pressed against his chest. They were Asato and Seiichirou then, and he was gentler than Tsuzuki wanted him to be, always keeping control. He wasn't afraid of hurting Tsuzuki; rather, he was afraid of the damage he might do to himself. Tsuzuki always wanted more, something harder and less loving, and Tatsumi wanted to please him. Tsuzuki begged for punishment, so Tatsumi pushed him down roughly, a hand between his shoulder blades, and moved hard against him from behind. While Tsuzuki rode his thrusts and sobbed for breath, Tatsumi's orgasm ripped through him as if he were made of paper.

He was still learning then, just beginning to understand his powers. They sprawled on tangled sheets while shadows churned across the ceiling and crashed like thunder. Tsuzuki wanted to know what damage they could do, but Tatsumi would not let them come close enough to find out. What he gave Tsuzuki was never enough, but he did all he could bear to do.

The physicality of the past is neither practical nor possible here. Instead, Tatsumi passively watches the wall as Tsuzuki's shape kneels astride his hips and reaches for his cock.

As he's taken in, there is warm, diffuse heat and feathery friction. Tsuzuki's shape leans forward, head resting on Tatsumi's chest, as his hips push back. It looks more intense than it feels, the wall reflecting a version of Tsuzuki lost in dirty, groveling abandon, yet Tatsumi senses only the vague impression of a penis rubbing against his belly, a chest breathing against his own, and a silky fringe of hair brushing his collarbones. Fingers press almost tentatively against his shoulders in place of the expected white-knuckle grip. Tatsumi closes his eyes to concentrate on the fleeting sensations as he fumbles back toward that shadow space where he was almost lost, where this was almost real.

Suddenly, Tatsumi's ears are full of his own ragged breathing, the loudest sound in the room. Beneath this, there are the soft rasps of sexual friction, then ripples of silence spreading out, filling the house. The shadow figure makes no sounds of its own. The silence is unnerving.

He recalls that Hisoka was quiet at first, unsure of himself and unwilling to admit it, holding his breath so as not to cry out. He entered Tatsumi's bed prepared for a fight and approached his body with grim determination, as if each encounter were a hard lesson to be learned. Tatsumi let the insults pass, and soon enough familiarity and pleasure made Hisoka confident, even bold. His voice, already low and rough, took on a reckless edge with sex, and he liked to growl out breathless commands in a tone that made Tatsumi eager to obey. Hisoka was so sensitive to touch, so responsive, that Tatsumi never regretted the essentially superficial nature of their contact, skin against skin without penetration. Hisoka could not describe the workings or limits of his empathic abilities, but he seemed able to feed some of his own pleasure to Tatsumi in a long push-pull of exquisitely erotic touch. With his soft mouth, rough voice, and the pads of his fingers, Hisoka broke him utterly.

It's funny. When he was with Hisoka, he always thought of Tsuzuki, but now he thinks of Hisoka.

He'd imagined orgasm was the point of this, but now it's just something he wishes to be done with. This isn't the sex he wants, but it is sex, and the outcome is inevitable. Tatsumi comes and his semen arcs up and falls in hot splatters on his belly and chest. He looks down at the mess with a brief glance past it to the dark form at his hips. On the wall, Tsuzuki's shadow is still merged with his, still rocking. Tatsumi snaps out a terse phrase and the shadow flinches and stills. He waves it away with an impatient motion of his wrist and it darts from the bed, its tall shape slipping into the wedge of darkness behind the open closet door.

Tatsumi's disappointment is visceral. He looks at the shape cowering behind the door and, for a fleeting moment, he thinks to give it the punishment that he never gave to Tsuzuki himself. For a giddy moment, he considers the possibilities, but then he reminds himself that Tsuzuki's misused shadow is not at fault.

He removes his glasses and polishes them on the corner of the sheet. Somewhere close by, Kurosaki and the flesh and blood Tsuzuki are rocking together in the dark. He knows how each calls out in orgasm, how their hands tighten around wrists and grip shoulders. He knows the taste of both skins, the weight of both bodies. Individually, they are each as familiar to him as his own flesh, but together they are a mystery.

Tatsumi sighs. He feels empty and tired. There isn't even satisfaction in traveling full circle, no sense of closure. This isn't anything he's likely to repeat.

Random things ask to be noticed. The candles are burning dangerously low, spilling wax onto the polished surface of the table. The suit jacket must be hung properly in the closet. He will need to wash again before sleep. The headache has returned and reasserts itself with rabid cheer. Perhaps eating something will help.

He heats leftover soup over a low flame and fills the kettle at the sink. Tomorrow he will return Tsuzuki's shadow. If its absence was noted, he will have an excuse ready. His co-workers will not suspect him of wrongdoing, but they do rely upon his guidance when it comes to the habits of shadows.

A bowl of soup steams on the table. The water in the kettle is hot and the tea jar waits on the counter.

Tatsumi takes a teacup from the cupboard, just one, perfectly whole and translucent. He smiles a little in anticipation. It's been a while since he last enjoyed a cup of tea.

~ end ~


End file.
